The Pact: A Detective Locklear Mystery Page 8

  “But her brother had other ideas?”

  “Yes, I had it out with Luke one time. He said it was time to wake up and see nothing was ever going to come of Sara and me. He said they were cursed and being with her would only bring me bad luck. I thought it was just some crazy superstition. When I said I wouldn’t stop seeing her, he beat me up bad, landed me in the hospital for three days. When I got back to school, Sara was gone. Luke had decided that they’d both leave school and Sara did whatever Luke said. I never really saw her after that – least not close up. When she had her accident, Luke wouldn’t let me visit her.”

  “You could just go there – I mean, he’s not there all the time.”

  Carter turned his head away and looked out of the window.

  “I don’t know if I want to, not any more. Too much time has passed. It’d be too hard to see her that way. I think it’s best if I remember her as she was. I think she’d prefer that. I love my wife, sir, but Sara and me – it was different. I don’t think I’ll ever care for anyone that same way.”

  Locklear coughed, a coping mechanism he’d developed in childhood to manage the myriad emotions his mother forced upon him. He did it every time he was uncomfortable, every time he was expected to empathise when he had no words, no response, no idea what to say. He tapped his fingers on the clock on the dashboard: 16.30.

  “Just drop me back to the station and you head on home to your son’s birthday party.”

  “Thanks, sir. I didn’t think you heard me earlier.”

  “I heard.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I didn’t know ... about your son.”

  Carter nodded. “Seth’s real smart, you know, sir. People misunderstand because he can’t walk. His kindergarten said he’s top of his class. He loves puzzles and maps. He already knows all of his letters and he won’t even be going to school for another year.”

  “Tomorrow – take your son to school – your wife doesn’t seem strong enough to lift the ... you know …” He coughed. “Then go straight to the library and focus on John Grant.”

  “Yes, sir. Will do.”

  When he reached the incident room, Locklear found Mendoza trawling through records on an old computer. She smiled when she saw him.

  “I’ve got some interesting information for you.”

  Locklear poured himself a coffee and sat down.

  “Shoot.”

  “The bad news first. I sat my backside down in the reception area of Shank Creamery for two hours, hoping to see the man himself or whoever signs the cheque for Sara Fehr’s care but no one would talk to me.”

  Locklear sighed but he had expected that.

  “So I headed to the cemetery. It turns out there are a lot of Fehrs in the local graveyard. Plett saw me there – he was going into the church when I parked the car but he just ignored me. Oh, by the way, I almost got myself another husband there. A young Mennonite man took a liking to me. Guess he won’t be too happy when he finds out I am not the out-of-town visitor visiting her great-great-grandfather’s grave.”

  “You don’t think he noticed that you’re Hispanic?”

  Mendoza laughed. “Now – are you ready for this? There were a few Fehr graves from the late 1700s – you can hardly read the writing on the headstones – but the newer ones – well, when I say new I mean since the mid-1800s – a huge number of them died young – all male.”

  “From disease?” Locklear offered.

  “No – there’s too much of a gap between each death and there aren’t enough other headstones in the graveyard with similar dates of death to signify an outbreak of disease. For example …” she checked her notes, “I found Adam Fehr – brother of the brothers returning from war (1866), John Fehr (1701), Thomas Fehr (1727), Matthew Fehr (1752), Andrew Fehr (1780), Mark Fehr (1810), Isaac Fehr (1833), another Matthew Fehr (1870), Lucas Fehr (1901), and another Mark Fehr (1933), Isaiah Fehr (2007) – that’s the last one I found. I checked the records and he was the Fehr children’s father. He was the only one who didn’t die so young, though he was only forty-eight years old. He died of cancer. Every one of the other Fehr men died in their twenty-first year.”

  Locklear stared at her.

  “Yes, that’s what I said: all of them died in their twenty-first year.”

  Locklear thought for a moment. “Andrew Fehr said birthday to me today.”

  “You sure? Carter said he spoke German?”

  “He did but before he went back to sleep he looked at me and said “birthday” in English. Helena Wyss said it was his birthday that day and she was expecting him. She had a present for him.”

  “Maybe it was the first thing he remembered when he woke up?”

  Locklear shook his head. “Look up the report on Andrew Fehr – see if it gives his date of birth.”

  Mendoza entered the case number and read the main sheet which recorded his vital information.

  “July 14th, 1994. He was tw–”

  “Twenty-one,” Locklear said.

  “Just like all of the others. But how could this happen over and over again? How come it didn’t get out – become public knowledge?”

  “Like Carter said, these people sort out their own problems.”

  “Till now.”

  “When did you say the first premature death occurred?”

  “Em ... 1866.”

  Locklear thought for a moment. “A year after the end of the Civil War.”

  “You think that has anything to do with it?”

  “It has everything to do with it, Mendoza. Everything.”

  “Type in one more thing. Search the police record for Sara Fehr’s automobile accident.”

  Mendoza typed in Sara’s name twice – once with a H and then without.

  “Here it is,” she said, swinging the screen around so Locklear could see.

  He scanned the page until he found what he was looking for. Sara Fehr’s date of birth. April 20th, 1987.

  “Now – get me the date of the accident.”

  Mendoza followed the order. “You really need to learn how to use a computer, sarge.”

  She ran her a fingernail along the screen, squinting until she found what she was looking for.

  “Here it is – date of accident – April 20th, 2008.”

  “Her twenty-first birthday,” Locklear and Mendoza said in unison.

  “But, she’s the only female ... and it’s recorded as an accident. Something about that doesn’t add up.”

  “Check to see who the investigating officer was and talk to him.”

  “Or her!” Mendoza replied. “So, someone has been murdering the Fehrs for one hundred and fifty years – and all on their twenty-first birthdays.”

  “Not someone, generations of someones – and I bet I know who they are.”

  “But why?” Mendoza asked. “What feud could possibly last for so long?”

  Locklear stared at the hard facts in front of him.

  “This isn’t a feud. I was wrong. The Fehrs have something the Shanks want only they don’t really have it … or … they don’t know where it is.”

  Chapter 9

  Set high on an attractive lot on the south side of Richmond, the home of Bishop John Rahn was even plainer than the Pletts’ house, except brighter and airier. The house, which overlooked the southern edge of the sprawling city, had stood in that spot when Richmond was no bigger that Harrisonburg was now. There was an air of peace and serenity to the small waiting area where Rahn’s wife had placed Locklear half an hour earlier.

  When he arrived, Rahn looked nothing like Locklear expected him to. The bishop was dressed in an ordinary grey tweed suit over a blue shirt and patterned tie. His short beard, slightly greying, was neatly trimmed on his thin bespectacled face. Rahn could be, Locklear reasoned, described as an attractive middle-aged man. He had a friendly face with sparking blue eyes and an open way about him.

  He shook hands genially and took Locklear into his office where he settled down in front of a
large oak desk.

  “Can I get you a coffee or anything?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  Locklear thought about how he might broach the question of the demotion of Samuel Shank seven years previously. The forthright expression on Rahn’s face told him that it would be best to just come out and say it.

  Locklear explained the events in Dayton and watched as Rahn’s face clouded over. He wondered what the man was thinking but continued with the story, finishing with a question about the placement of Plett in Shank’s place.

  Rahn ran his hands along the old wooden desk. He took off his glasses and rubbed them hard with a white-cotton, lace-trimmed handkerchief. He caught Locklear looking at it.

  “It’s my wife’s,” Rahn said with a smile. “She puts lace on everything. I took it accidentally yesterday. I’ve been trying to hide it ever since.” He replaced the glasses, which did not look any cleaner, back on the edge of his nose.“In the past, Mennonite pastors were elected by the congregation. The system worked well for hundreds of years. They were unpaid and largely undertook their duties as a devotion to God’s work.”

  “And now?”

  “Well, depending on the size of the community, pastors are now hired, and paid, by the community. They are often seminary graduates. But this usually happens in the larger congregations who can afford to pay the salary of a pastor.”

  “And the smaller ones – like Dayton?”

  “Dayton has a very small – and dwindling population. There was never money there to pay a pastor.”

  “So what changed? I assume Plett is paid for his work?”

  “Yes, yes, he is – part-funded by other, larger congregations. Sometimes, the old arrangement just doesn’t work in today’s economic climate.”

  “Can you give me an example, Mr – em – do I call you Bishop?”

  “John.On rare occasions, there are problems, a mismatch between the needs of the congregation and the pastor, a pastor trying to enforce old order ways on modern Mennonite groups ... an abuse of power ...” Rahn trailed off.

  “Was an abuse of power the reason Samuel Shank was relieved of his duties?”

  Rahn did not answer.

  “Well, can I take it, John, that the latter reason would most fit the reason Plett replaced Samuel Shank?”

  John Rahn nodded.

  “Are you going to tell me what was going on?”

  John Rahn’s mouth smiled but his eyes mirrored his thoughts. “There were complaints. People who left the area to practise in other church groups complained to the new pastors. Eventually, it got back here and ... I had to take action.”

  “By installing Plett?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I also take it that what happened to Sara Fehr sparked your ‘action’?”

  “Yes,” Rahn replied, meeker now.

  Locklear knew the interview was coming to the end. He stood, as did Rahn.

  He took the pastor’s outstretched hand.

  “Can I ask you one more thing, John?”

  Rahn nodded but his face was more serious now, his smile gone.

  “Does ‘It’s a good year to put things right’ mean anything to you?”

  Rahn shook his head. “I’m sorry – no.”

  Locklear scanned the face of the man in front of him. Rahn was telling the truth.

  Before he left Richmond to return to Dayton, Locklear had three things to do. First he had to sit down with Alex Kowalski and update his boss on the case so far.

  After this, he went to check on Andrew Fehr who had been admitted to Richmond Memorial under an assumed name.

  He found the kid sitting up in bed eating jelly, but with no memory of the night of his hanging. Either that or he was keeping up a charade that he didn’t remember. Locklear was glad of that but frustrated to find that the charade extended to him also.

  The third task he had to attend to was to check on the cactus plant in his apartment. It was the only living thing that depended on him and he had bought it because of its resilience – cacti needed little water and therefore little care. When he got there, it was fine but he watered it anyway – there was no telling when he’d be back.

  Before he left he went to the closet and packed some more clothes. He reached into the back of the closet and retrieved a box he’d kept since his childhood. He blew the heavy dust from it to make sure he had the right one.

  Five minutes later he was back on Route 64, thinking of what he’d do next.

  Jo Mendoza didn’t have far to go to interview the cop who investigated Sara Fehr’s accident – he sat most days under the fan in the police station filling out traffic violations and court paperwork, a punishment for discharging his weapon without need, although he didn’t see it that way at the time.

  Trooper Ricci waited until Mendoza finished talking before telling her what he remembered from the day Sara Fehr was pulled from the Susquehanna River.

  “We came upon the scene only a few minutes after she hit the water ’cause she drove right past us like the devil himself was chasing her. The road she was speeding on is a dead end and only leads to one place – Rockville Bridge – which is a railway bridge not open to traffic. We followed her. We thought she might be drunk. We got cut off when a truck jack-knifed so we had to go around. By the time we got there she was under water. You could say she was lucky that where she landed was shallow – only the driver side was actually in the water – rest of the car was stuck in silt. But she hit her head bad. My partner got in the passenger window and I called for services. He pulled her out but she was unconscious.”

  “Is your partner still active?”

  Ricci shook his head. “He was shot – five years ago. Died at the scene.”

  “I’m sorry. Did you see anyone chase her? Was there another car?”

  “No. Guess she was depressed or something. The note we found – it was on the floor of the passenger side – was in German. We took a photocopy of it and got it translated but the note itself was lost before the coroner’s court called the case.”

  “What did it say?”

  Ricci stood up and went to the files at the back of the room. Mendoza waited while he banged the drawers of several filing cabinets open and shut. He returned and handed a photocopy to Mendoza. There were two lines on the page:

  It’s a good year to put things right. I’m going to put things right I’m sorry. The children need you more than me Sara

  “Hell of a thing – a girl like that – her whole life ahead of her – trying to kill herself.”

  “The coroner ruled it attempted suicide?”

  “No, that was the odd thing. Me and Billy – that was my partner – reckoned the group didn’t want it to get out and exerted some influence. She was a Mennonite.”

  “A shunned Mennonite,” Mendoza corrected him.

  “Really? Well, the actual note was lost and no one seemed interested in the photocopy we had. They said it was an accident. I knew we were being told to shut up. It was suicide – I’m sure of that but we wondered if whoever drove the poor girl to it wanted to keep things quiet. We even had a witness said he saw her drive off the bridge. I moved the photocopy years back to an unsolved file. Had a feeling someday someone would come looking for it.”

  Mendoza studied the writing. There was something not right about it but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  “Is that everything?” she asked.

  “There was one other thing that was odd. When the ambulance took the girl away, Billy and myself drove to her farm to inform the family. First we thought there was no one there – there was no answer at the house so we walked over to the barn. We looked inside and there was a noose hanging from the rafter. Then we heard banging so Billy took out his gun – we thought we’d stumbled onto something. We walked behind the barn. There was a small outhouse and the door to it was blocked – someone had driven a car right up to the door and had locked someone inside. There were no keys
in the car so Billy and I had to freewheel the car backwards and let the guy out. It was her brother – her twin actually – we found that out later. He mustn’t have been well before we even gave him the news because he smelt of vomit real bad. The poor guy fainted when we told him. Strangest day I ever had and I’ve had a few.”

  “Did you ask him about the noose?”

  “Billy did but he wouldn’t speak – said not one word in the whole time we drove him to the hospital. We weren’t sure if he spoke English or not so we left him alone and just figured the girl had changed her mind about the method she’d use to end it. It’s men who hang themselves – not women – least not in my experience.”

  “There’s no reference to Luke Fehr or the noose in your report.”

  “There was in the original report. Billy and me spent two hours working late writing it up and left it on the sarge’s desk. Next morning, he came to us and said to take it out ... so we did.”

  As dusk fell, an excited Lee Carter exited by the back entrance to Harrisonburg Library, pleased with what he’d found out about John Grant and the time he spent in Dayton at the end of the Civil War. The librarian, who he’d known at high school had been very helpful, spending a good deal of her day helping him find the records he needed, and then stayed on past closing. A day trawling though historic records reminded him of his old life, the one he knew before his son was born. For two years after Seth’s premature birth, Carter continued in his research post in Richmond while his wife struggled at home with a child who needed twenty-four-hour care. When his wife’s mental health began to suffer, he threw in the career he had worked hard for and returned to Harrisonburg to take up a post as state trooper under his father’s then command. Even now he knew he’d made the right choice but that didn’t stop him longing for a life in academia.

  This day had been the happiest he’d experienced in the job and he felt satisfied as he threw the photocopies of useful records he’d found into the trunk. As he slammed the trunk shut, Carter heard a familiar voice behind him, a woman’s, calling his name. He turned and instead saw the face of a man with a gun pointed at him. The gun fired and Carter instinctively shifted to the side. Searing heat spread through his left shoulder as he fell and slammed his head against the ground. As he gasped for breath he opened his eyes and looked upwards into the dark night sky. A click – the sound of a bullet moving into the chamber – ready to fire again. Unable to move, he clenched his eyes shut and waited for the shot which he knew would end his life, and thought of the loves of his life: his wife, his son, his father and Sara Fehr who even with the passing years was never far from his mind. He understood now what people facing death meant when they say time slowed down and a million thoughts came and went in an endless procession of photos and memories. He saw his life – a happy childhood despite the absence of his deceased mother, the love and devotion of his widowed cop father, a sense of belonging to his community, his love of sport and history – and theology, which he had avoided mentioning to Locklear. More important than anything, his faith that would hold him through whatever he now faced on the cold damp ground. Another sound and he began to pray. A scuffle, noise, grunting. He opened his eyes. A car screaming away, the rough pull of strong arms lifting him up. The smell of sand and the rough throw onto a hard metal base. He groaned in pain and as he drifted into unconsciousness the last sounds he heard were the screams of the librarian in the distance.